


Lost Girls

by duelbraids



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/F, heres some gay ass shit MY MAN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duelbraids/pseuds/duelbraids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>panne and the avatar fall in love. its really that simple ( no its not )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mirage one.

**Author's Note:**

> arabic words in this chapter:  
> ammi: mother or my mother  
> jadda: grandmother

mother and  _ ammi _ always held hands.

 

yarne noticed it before the younger was born,

where oft his mothers would sit next to him,

trying to convince him to read -- oh, but times

were so happy, why can’t he go out and run,

and eventually they’d relent, because they 

would never have peace quite like this, and

it weighed on them that, their next child

may never get this type of sweet silence.

 

running in the streets always seemed to worry them,

and he knew why, at some point, because

mommy talked about the war, talked around it,

“pointless” was the word ammi used, 

typically when no one was around, 

and her tone  _ hushed. _

 

they told him they loved him.

 

more than anything, really;

though ammi had run through endless phrases,

eat your vegetables, brush your fur, 

but they never said it more than how much

they absolutely, positively, loved him,

even when he is barely six and

they tell him, he’ll no longer be “ only ”

 

he held their hands,

tiny, baby hands that slipped into his,

when mother -- she was mother now,

anything else was ‘ babyish, ’-- 

and ammi left, called by the King,

By Chrom, o fearless exalt,

for service in the war.

under morgan’s wailing, he hears mother say

“ we should have gone to plegia when we had the chance. ”

 

it is ammi’s  _ jadda  _ who takes care of them,

while mother and ammi were off seiging castles,

and she did her best, to keep their minds off of it,

off of their fear for their mothers, 

trying to get them to play in the sandy streets.

 

it is an empty, cold sheet of paper that tells them ammi is gone,

and morgan only understands “ not coming home ”


	2. chapter 1.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exposition.

Rarely do they rest for such long periods, but the day was hot and their journey to the border would be a long one; their mounts are tired, their warriors are hungry, and at some point they must make camp, so let it be now, while the Exalt still had some energy left, as though she were unaccustomed to this much travel. Sweat seemed profuse in the other members of the army, glistening and practically melting, but not her; the “token Plegian,” as lower ranking soldiers began to call her,  **liked** the atrocious heat, and thrived in it, needing only the shade of a tree to keep cool; she’d nudged her way through the crowds of soldiers, to find the sublime place to rest. It was almost ideal, sitting with a book in her lap, having dedicated her afternoon to its study. 

She did not mix well with the soldiers outside of the Shepherds; inside of the Shepherds, she was considered some kind of pinnacle, a paramount in strategy and incredibly caring, far beyond the point of doting. Amongst the lower soldiers, those taken in by the draft or by sheer happenstance, she was more of… a necessity, but an unwanted one. No one  _ wanted  _ the foreign woman here, it simply was how things had to be. So, the Plegian tactician kept her distance, and trained only when someone else could see her, just to be safe. It made keeping watch on the edges easier, too, able to glance around for any threats.

Trees rustled behind her, and she chalks it up to their newer members, whose movements she has yet to become accustomed to, or perpetual shadow Marth, who was never too far behind them and had long since become a familiar presence, a child who thought themself sneaky. She found it a wonder that the child had yet to cease in following a whole gods be damned army, though it  _ was  _ sweet when they helped protect the group, even if it was curious behavior. For a moment, though, she looks up, to see the leaves shake and quiver, and then to only turn back - her attention was never easily held, and captivation was rare.

Said object was plain, too, with nothing but an old, worn leather binding, tied together with twine and with sand stuck in between the pages. Each page was dutifully dated, going back three years and two months, starting on a thursday. That thursday, three years ago, she is said to have enough food to last the week, two blankets, a dulling bronze sword, and a fire tome. There is a particular note that “once we’re back in Menes, check on Jadda, and Neith too, Ziya’s letter says they’re both sick,” ( she’s since taken note of “we’re” instead of “i’m” ) and all of it is written in Plegian, with a small inscription in Ylissean at the bottom. It’s heavily scratched out, with corrections for spelling and it’s all mostly wrong ( she only knows they’re wrong, because Miriel told her from over her shoulder, the fifth time she’d checked through this book. )

Signed, at the very bottom of her little book, her journal of what she must have been doing three years ago, is a woman’s name, along with her own, both in Plegian and Ylissean script, as if they were practicing it. Suha, the unknown woman who’d been with her three years ago, but was not searching for her since her loss of memory, and then: Rajya. Both Plegian, both very desperate when it came to survival, and both missing from Menes, which they were due back in a little over a year ago. 

That timeframe placed them both in Regna Ferox, perhaps half way between the mountains and its southern border, a long, long way from Menes. Rajya had explored the option of having gone back, but checking current maps showed that Menes was on the very western border of Plegia, a port city, and she would not have had enough time to cross all of Plegia and then get to where she’d been near Southton a few months back, where Chrom and Lissa had found her. It took over a year and a half, and there was no way, unless she’d taken a boat all the way around, and she doubts a penniless tactician with ripped robes would’ve been able to afford one of the port cities’ boats. 

So, she studied it, and tried to assume where she’d gone wrong in her travels - the journal is very serious, and it only focused on their supplies, and very rarely were there notes like the one on their first page. Perhaps Suha was just as tactical as Rajya is, or they had learned from a bad experience to always keep a record of what they had, and keep it far apart from personal records. Jadda, she knows from memory that is so rarely there, is her grandmother, so Neith and Ziya may be family members as well, but there is no evidence of the letter mentioned in Suha’s script. Any trace of family is simply erased.

Hyperfocus has lead her to one conclusion - she’s utterly alone, stranded underneath a coniferous, foreign tree. 

Of course, she also knows that her travels were extensive, and that any family she had left would be far away from Ylisse. She consoled herself with the idea that they would never think to look for her in Ylisse, especially not at the Exalt’s side, maybe  _ that’s  _ why she’d yet to be found by her family, or they simply thought she wasn’t on time ( a year and a half late for supper, she chuckles. ) Or, they thought her a traitor, for ever deciding to side with the Ylissean Shepherds, for being at their every little whim as a tactical call girl. 

——

Long, sleepless nights had followed Panne out into the forest, trailing behind like a trail left long ago, a tracker following the last of a band of game, with indiscriminate, inevitable broken branches, little slivers of the parent shattered on the ground, fragmented and having since shifted from their initial site of assault. Assault, it felt like - sometimes, it overwhelmed her to remember how much she noticed. Nothing moved, breathed, or cried out in agony without her knowing, or something around her knowing that she could then deduce the cause; humans would call it ‘theatre of cruelty,’ but  _ cruelty  _ had little to do with the senses she was saddled with, akin to the burlap filled with roots and “weeds,” though they were far more than just invasive pests

Cruelty was, for all intents and purposes, an universal game of cat and mouse with death, pulling and twisting against partner’s grip, wriggling out from underneath paws and simply dealing with the consequences of claws, the clotted wounds and then the scarring, the reminders of fire thrown at a child, to chase her out, out,  _ out,  _ into the streets with naught but clothing and stolen bread - it’s cold under her fingers, bumpy and rough and just enough for the night.

Fingers draw against the bark, feeling it over for moss, or a hidden alcove, or a suitable bird’s nest, or something to tell her she was on the right track. Birds typically meant smaller prey, which relied on roots and vegetables to survive, and despite top predator appearances, she would sustain herself without the meats that the Shepherds seemed to thrive off of. The tree grows far towards the sky, a bit above the rest, its competition for the rain and space having been over run with its roots, though dandelions have twined their roots with its, perhaps leaching the water from the roots, not like it was hurting the large thing. 

Dandelions, she focuses on. A survivor’s plant, abundant and though they did not keep long once pulled, a few taken root and all did nothing to damage their chances of regrowing - a plus, as well, they tasted quite nice and made a rather sweet tea, and dealing with every foolish action of this army had become grating. Clear memories of hidden berries, deep in the convoy, with a reddish sheen and seemingly still ripe; raspberries would make a good addition, and perhaps she could convince that one Shepherd, whose name never sticks in her head, but his nose was crooked, to put some aside for her. The boy had an overbite, she remembered, and slightly buck teeth, a scar from a split lip, and one group of hair that cowlicked upwards - a bum leg, too, she thinks, the reason he must be in calvary and not a foot soldier. 

She had focused on the face, for that seemed to be the custom with humans ( you look someone in the eye when you talk to them, but why would she want to see into the void their eyes hold, jet black pupils never ending, taking in light, ) and took in even the tiniest details. Where “whiskers” would take hold, the growing back of hair and horrendous attempts to stilt it, and if she focused enough, she could see their pores and how their skin dipped in and out -- how horrible to not be covered in fur, they must be freezing, only having that shook of hair on their head. Never eyes, though. Too many details, too much to absorb at once. Eyes were more theatre of cruelty than any ability of observation.

The roots rip easily, almost coming loose at her touch - a way with plants, perhaps a benefit that her parents could never teach her about, perhaps just an acquired skill from desperately clawing for food, anything, tired of begging and finding beatings instead, trying her best to survive, to be  _ something  _ more than a taguel without a warren. As soon as she could, she followed every whiff of taguel, finding clothes and beaststones in raided settlements, but no warren. She refused to believe herself  _ last,  _ though; she remembered trailing through deserts near impenetrable, and she would not suffer that for nothing. 

Denial is the first stage of grief, she remembered  _ them  _ saying, telling her to forget, or perhaps telling her to mourn, but she will not mourn the entire race - instead, she satisfies herself by mourning one warren, and searching for the rest. It will not be denial until the day she finds their bones, and it will remain denial until she painstakingly tears the throat of each hunter, watching light draw into those pupils for the last time. 

She could picture her revenge so clearly, though the faces of her hunted are never the same, nor are they ever real. They are, for lack of better words, dummies, that bleed and breathe but are lifeless nonetheless. Panne pulled delicate vocal cords the same way she did roots, hands covered in heavy dirt, though she is gentle how she places the dandelions in her pack. The leaves on these plants were larger than ones she’d grabbed a few days ago. 

Spring was slowly turning to summer, and with it, the plants she relied on were getting older, and soon yellow blooms would be soft, sheep’s wool-like seeds, and they’d stick in her hair and thin, thin fur for days at a time. New birth was slowly being replaced with rapid, over ripeness and balmy heat. Though she hated to admit, she may have to rely on the Shepherds for food once all the greens that sicken her start to be full bloom. 

There were negatives to having such a limited palette, but she admits that none of it is too bad. None of it is worth complaining or contemplating ( yet here she is, complaining and contemplating ) and thus, moving on. Her bag of greens feels sufficiently full, and she thinks it’ll last her the rest of the week, maybe a little less. 

No matter, they still had plenty of food to share, whether she liked that reliance or not.


	3. chapter two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lead up to the C Support

Page ten was a mess -- each page was a week; a little over two months, after the journal had started, pronouns had changed. Suha was out of the picture, every “we” replaced with “I” and there are tired references to an ambush, cut short by some divine providence. Divine providence, or perhaps intervention of some other kind. The page captivated her, to say the least.

_ Menes plan interrupted, heading to Al-Mahariyah to recover.  _

Al-Mahariyah was the capital of Plegia, according to Chrom’s maps that she’d dutifully snatched as a part of her tactical reconnaissance. Gaius had been  _ keen  _ to inform her that the city was built into the skull of an ancient dragon, had been  _ so eager  _ to tell her that the dragon had six eyes - perhaps not out of malice, but more out of excitement in that “this was something I know!” Too easily, she understands - hours of .

Hours have passed, and it begins to slowly get dark, the heat turning to tepid air - it was only the beginning of summer, and yet the moans and groans of earlier still continued on. A spiteful part of her said she couldn’t wait until they crossed into Plegia, where it smoulders in the day and pollen plants wither and where at night, the temperature drops to freezing; they would never stop whining. Only a few people seemed truly unfazed - Maribelle and Miriel, the most prominent. 

Rajya shuts her book, trying to close her mind off from contemplations of Suha and missing matriarchs and Al-Mahariyah and three eyed skulls with a city growing out of them. Soldiers she knew were all off doing chores, and she realizes that perhaps it is time to do hers - cooking duty, and though she knew little of Ylissean cuisine, it would never hurt them to try something new. ( if they thought they couldn’t take the heat in summer, she can’t wait until they taste Plegian food, perhaps then they’d shut up. ) 

The cooking tent is never crowded, and yet it never has enough of what she needs - it’s half merged with the convoy, as some of the dried out food is kept in boxes, like the rest of their things. The rarer, fresher ingredients were laid out on the table, ready for whoever was assigned.  _ What was with the Shepherds and bear meat?  _ Ignoring unsightly game, Rajya is methodical in her work - they can deal with something vegetarian tonight, she thinks. 

Spices are pulled from her bag, labeled in Plegian script, and a wooden, tightly sealed container, all placed on the table. Rajya keeps stock still, much like her old journal, on what foods she has - the spices, she knew would never go bad, and well dried noodles would never spoil, even if they would taste bad ( enough spices would hide that. ) 

Tent entrance ruffles, folding in the breeze. Rajya snaps her head up, dreads whipping back just the slightest bit, hitting her neck and then falling back in place. The woman who enters has a bag in her hands, hanging by her side in a relaxed, loose fashion. Panne - she thinks. A newer addition to the group, having agreed to travel alongside the Shepherds until the Exalt was safe. Something about a debt owed. 

For a minute, they simply move around each other, Rajya focusing on wooden spoons and their different measurements, dedication deep in furrowed brows and pursed lips. Too much of one, too little of another, and she could make something more like a garbage heap than food. Panne seems more wary than necessary, looking at the different options for knifes, as preparing vegetables meant specific instruments, but they seem to be nowhere in the convoy, until she turns back to the table. Underneath brown hands is one skinny blade, delicately splitting a pea to see if it was safe to eat. 

They had never spoken before - not once. Now was, probably, a good time to start. Panne taps on the table to garner Rajya’s attention, and again her head snaps up. 

“Oh - h-hello!” Rajya’s voice peaks, just enough to be heard. 

Panne does not respond ( no reason to, really ) instead she only says, “I need that knife.” 

Only a moment’s hesitation, and then Rajya places the knife on the table, with a smile, “I-I’ll need it back in a bit, but I think I can deal without.” 

What ‘a bit’ was, wasn’t defined, but Rajya manages without. Panne working diligently to prepare her own food, to the right of her workstation. Again, they both set to work, Rajya carrying a pot of water over to one of the smaller fires lit in the camp, glancing back to Panne once she gets it to hanging. Perhaps Rajya’s best feat of strength. Panne, however, didn’t even notice, her ears only twitching at the sound of the water, sloshing back and forth. Whatever, Rajya has far too many noodles to boil to be bothered, but she makes sure to be considerate of Panne’s space -- gosh, she would just  _ hate  _ to intrude. 

Pinches of spices are thrown in, and then sliced carrots and peas - they aren’t really Plegian ingredients, but she doesn’t quite care, as they work well, and are oft imports in Menes. ( she remembers dancing in those market streets, not quite eye level with any adult, but able to see all their wares. ) The air seems to permeate with the smell of curry, and Panne takes note, wiggling her nose as she sniffs, “The smell stronger than the usual fare.” 

Rajya shrugs, “It’s Plegian, it’s supposed to be that way. Though, I suppose I’m used to it.” How could one be used to something if they have no memories, but it’s pushed off.

“And this… Meat on the table, you aren’t using it?” Her nose is upturned at some idea, and Rajya is worried that it’s her own cooking and not the bloody heap meant to be salted and cured. 

“Figured Frederick would use it.” Another shrug, noncomittal, casual. “Maybe he won’t and someone else will.” Panne is dodgy, when it comes to eye contact, but Rajya is perhaps just as much of an offender, never holding the contact they do establish.

She wonders if she was this bad with the ladies before she lost her memories. 

Either Panne doesn’t notice her nerves, or she doesn’t care, but either way, she returns to her meal - she’s always preparing her own, Rajya has noticed. The dietary needs of the taguel were far different from humans, someone told her. Maybe she just read it somewhere else. 

Again and again, they fall into silence, working until they finally must speak, over something small or “oh, i’m so sorry,” when stepping on feet. Panne hangs a tea pot next to Rajya’s noodle cauldron. Herbal remedy seems to calm the scent of the rest, and both take note, so Rajya turns to face Panne. 

“Might I ask you to share your tea?” She’s quiet, but Panne’s ears twitch, and notices right away. 

“Only if you share the -- Curry, is it?” 

It seemed a good resolution, and the two sit next to each other, far away enough from the fire that they do not overheat, making idle conversation. Rajya compliments Panne’s tea, and Panne must admit that Rajya’s cooking is good too ( she’s never seen any of the Shepherds eat anything without meat, she thinks; and they would call her a predator. ) The soldiers were still complaining, one response being little more than disgusted coughing, though she kept eating. It was more cosmetic, complaining for the point of complaining, much like the heat.

Neither pays any mind. Instead, they find they do have some common ground. An inability to read any Ylissean, and yet a love of books nonetheless. 

“Is it true that you and -- Sumia, is it? You two have a ‘book club,’ don’t you?” Panne is skeptical - as if the idea was new. ( to be fair, it was new to Rajya too. )

Excited nodding, and Rajya answers, “Yeah! We do.” Digging into a pocket on the inside of her coat, Rajya pulls out one that Sumia gave her, with a paperbound cover, with the effigy of two girls, standing happy vigil over a well, hands intertwined. It took forever for the two of them to find it, a book with both a Ylissean and Plegian translation.

It was, perhaps, the cheesiest thing she’d read in a long time, that she could recall; but their interest is in novels, and she doubts tactical treatises count.

“Here. We just finished this one, and  _ I _ liked it a lot.” She shrugs, “Translation’s not the best, though. A few words are out of place.” 

More skepticism, “Translation?” 

More nodding, “Uh huh! I had to read it, didn’t I?” Panne stares, and Rajya places it on her lap, “Here - take it! I’ve finished it anyways.”

“Thank you.” Reserved. Quiet, as if the concept of simply being  _ given  _ was new - where is the catch, she seems to ask.

They lapsed into silence, and Rajya sips at the tea while Panne stuffs her mouth with food. 

Panne thought it very strange, how Rajya’s heart beat hard, and she could hear it loud in her ears. Nervous, perhaps afraid, though she laughs and smiles, and gives. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "isn't that just an alternate version of the C Support" not if you dont follow the script


	4. mirage two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how jamilla became morgan.

long ago, their name wasn’t morgan.

long before the taunting of children

changed their name, they were

jamila - beautiful

 

rajya had begged panne to name their baby,

a name like her own

yarne had been named as panne’s people,

let it be rajya’s turn

 

jamila’s fingers slipped through the sands

as people sought them, sought

their death.

(they lay in their brother’s arms, 

cradled from crazed cultists and cruel civilians,

as Lucina sends them all 

back before it all began. )

 

and jamilla the beautiful 

became morgan, the amnesiac.


End file.
